


Simon draws on Baz

by dark_as_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Flirting, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Watford Seventh Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:08:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24628324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_as_pitch/pseuds/dark_as_pitch
Summary: Simon draws on Baz. Baz loses his chill.or Simon and Baz kinda forget to be enemies, and Simon can and will doodle on everything
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 65
Kudos: 499





	Simon draws on Baz

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to the wonderful Rainbow Rowell.
> 
> Tiny trigger warning: Not very nice nuns.  
> Literally just skip the first three little paragraphs if you don't want to see that.  
> <3

I'm so tired that the joy of returning to Watford is barely even registering.

My rucksack is weighing me down and my head feels too heavy. I feel like I haven't slept in months. The nuns at the boys' home believed that to be idle was to invite the devil. The summer was an endless cycle of chores and praying at all hours of the day (and night) whether we wanted to or not.

They particularly weren't fond of me. Okay, no, that's putting it lightly. They thought I was some type of demon child sent to test them, always smelling of smoke and screaming about monsters in my sleep.

They made sure to make absolutely clear what they thought of me, too. My stomach twists thinking of going to bed hungry, or worse, not being allowed to go to bed at all, locked in the chapel instead.

I shake my head, sparks of magic catching on my short curls. I make sure to bang my shoulder into every corner of the staircase up Mummers to ground myself and shove all that away. I'm back. I'm away. I'm home

I open the door to the room at the very top- "Well, you look terrible."

I huff. (And maybe grin a little. It's so _normal_ and so very not Normal that I can't help it.)

"Hey." I sort of half collapse against the closed door.

Baz's face is all twisted up, like he's tasted something sour but trying to seem unbothered.

He looks me up and down once and says, "Hello, yourself." And then sort of stands there for a moment, looking oddly awkward for him. He clears his throat. "Right. Gripping conversation. Truly. Bye, now."

He tries to leave the room but then realises I'm still blocking the exit which leads to a bit more of the awkward standing about, just closer now.

I look at him.

His hair is slicked back in the strict style he always goes for at the beginning of the year, before he manages to get over himself long enough to relax a bit.

He's got such an intense gaze. So much grey, it'll swallow you up if you're not careful.

I like that Baz can hold proper eye-contact, even when I'm being difficult. Most people don't look me right in the eye. Penny says I carry too much of myself in my eyes, it makes people uncomfortable. I've never really understood what she means. I wonder what they see.

"Have you gone and gotten taller, you bastard?"

That shocks a laugh out of him and it goes straight to my chest. It's mainly a huff but still.

"Couldn't let you have the lead for too long, Snow. Couple months was more than enough."

"Wanker."

This civility (for our standards, at least) is kinda profound to be honest. Things quietened down last term, the Mage has barely spoken to me in a year, Baz seemed stuck in his own head, hardly remembering to be a proper storybook antagonist to me. So sixth year ended a bit unremarkably.

"Snow." He makes a vague hand gesture and says, "Move. Com'on."

I do, but my smile drops. I don't want to be alone in another dusty room (even if I am quite fond of this one).

He's just brushing past me when I grab onto his sleeve and (I'm ashamed to say) almost whine, "Don't _leave_."

Baz seems a bit bewildered and a lot like he agrees I'm acting like a petulant child, but he's turned completely towards me now so I'm counting it as a win.

"And what, pray, would you have me do instead?" His eyebrow is fighting to join his widow's peak.

"I dunno." The material of his shirt is soft and kinda shiny. The floral pattern reminds me of the mug I got Penny for her birthday in fourth year. I pull his arm closer and rub the fabric between my fingers. And then realise I'm being a bit weird even for me.

With a shrug I let go if his arm and say, "Tell me about your summer. Or something. About how many siblings you actually have. Your latest fairy pie recipe. How many pairs of white tennis shorts you own-" I'm laughing now, and I can definitely see him trying to hide a smile, "Do your family wear capes and corsets around your gothic castle?"

He shoves my shoulder saying, "We're not royalty, you nightmare. And we live in a stately home, not a castle."

"Same difference. I'm sure you'd fancy yourself in a crown."

"Some people can pull off anything, it's a blessing and a curse." He still looks a bit bewildered, but he's being cheeky now, and I know he's not gonna leave.

He closes the door and goes over to his half unpacked bags. He pulls something out and throws it at my head.

Ignoring my sputtering he says, "Can't have you withering away before I get to dazzle you with how evil and fantastical I am."

"Can you actually turn into a bat?"

"No, but my younger sister is half gremlin."

"Really?" I ask getting comfortable on my bed across from him.

"She certainly acts like it."

I find out Baz is actually a bit of a softie for his siblings (He has four, which is really throwing me for some reason), but will sooner kiss a merewolf than admit it.

His house doesn't have a dungeon, but he believed it did for a solid ten years of his life, thanks to his mad aunt Fiona. (I met her once, she's well scary.)

This is the most he's ever spoken to me, let alone without being cruel. I make sure to butter him up by throwing bits of chocolate at him every few minutes (I whoop when he catches it in his mouth).

It's only fair. Mint Aero is his favourite, too.

|||

I guess we called a sort of truce that night.

I mean, we didn't actually say anything about it. But things have been civil, almost nice, for the past few weeks and I don't know what else to call it.

For the first time ever it feels like we're normal roomates. Getting dressed in the morning, happening to walk in the same direction, being assigned to the same desk in class, used to all be such a big deal, such an issue. It feels easier now. I like it.

Penny's practically having a field day with not having to endure an endless stream of accusations about Baz every morning, and Agatha just seems glad that I've not asked her to get back together again. We're better off as friends anyway, she's a lot more fun to hang out with when she doesn't look constipated over having to hold my hand.

Baz and I are desk partners in Political Science, and I'm only half paying attention. I'm doodling on the notebook between us, half imagined scenes of a boy flying on the back of a dragon (rather than slaying it for once). I quite like drawing, it's one of the few things that have been a part of me forever.

Baz's hand accidentally knocks into mine when he moves to write something down in the notebook (that I am now realising is his). He jumps lightly and looks down. His eyebrow goes up while he takes in the sketches. He knows I draw (I mean, we live together), but I don't think he's ever properly looked at any of it before.

He looks up and rolls his eyes at me, but turns the page carefully and continues his notes on the next page.

|||

I'll admit, I'm fully taking advantage of the truce. And Baz's weird new tolerance for me.

He'll still snip at me when I'm being a shit and bemoan the eternal torture that is my existence (his words), but not much more than that.

I have gotten in the habit of doodling over his textbooks as much as possible, mainly just 'cause he lets me, and I like annoying him a bit.

Sketches of swords and castles and cartoon vampires and flowers. He seems fond of the flowers. I twist them around the text and make the pages into little meadows and forests.

He'll shove me and act above it all, but then spend the rest of the lesson absentmindedly tracing over them.

I managed to get a reaction when I drew him though.

It was just a rough sketch of his profile (strong jaw, high cheekbones, strands of hair falling over a defined brow). He wasn't taking much notice of what I was doing, used to me being a general nuisance covered in ink and leaning into his side of the desk. When he did look down he kind of froze for a bit.

It was only a simple sketch, almost like the concept art of Baz, but instantly recognisable. I guess there really isn't anyone like him, no one I spend as much time looking at anyway.

The way he looked at me then. I've been trying and trying to get it on paper since, but the grey is never right.

I've taken him on as a challenge. I'm sketching his face all the time in my own pads. I'm confident that nobody knows his face better than me and it's making me tear at my hair that I can't get it right.

I'm at his football practise, watching him. For all my following him around in fifth year, I never realised how many muscles move in his thighs when he scores a goal. His hair sticks to the side of his neck, and his smile is a little bit feral. He's good. Ruthless. And he knows it. It's hard to look away.

I place the little sketches of him running about, raw power coiling through him, by his things before I leave.

He doesn't mention it afterwards, but I know he found them. He knows I watch him, so he watches me back.

|||

We're in class and his skin is looking all kinds of smooth and honestly what did the teacher expect when they placed us together, I was doomed not to follow the lesson from the start.

I've been staring at his hand for the past 15 minutes. Watching the muscles move under his skin, his sharp wrist, his long fingers writing with that posh bloody fountain pen he insists on using. I've kind of forgotten I'm meant to be sketching what I'm seeing (or you know, paying attention to the lesson).

He's so pale, I can see every one of his veins painting him in long delicate lines of blue, and get the sudden urge to add my own lines on him.

I briefly consider asking him, but if he rolls his eyes at me one more time I may well thump him on the head. He has his uniform shirt rolled up to his elbows, it's hardly my fault for taking his forearm and starting to trace inky flowers up and down his skin.

I can feel his stare burning into the side of my face but ignore him. He doesn't say anything, even though his left arm is needed for taking notes (he doesn't seem much interested in the lesson anymore to be fair).

He's cool to the touch and so soft.

He's lovely.

And flowers really do suit him.

They're glowing faintly and I realise I may have poured a bit of magic into them. Baz'll kill me if the ink won't come out later, I'm not sure he fancied getting a tattoo this morning.

I never thought I would ever get to this point. Touching Baz, being allowed to touch Baz, without hurting him. Being allowed to show him how I see him.

The boldest person I have ever known, drawn in the most delicate lines.

I'm a little bit obsessed with him. But that's okay. The feeling has always been mutual.

|||

Penny and Baz are absolute fiends when put together.

Apparently the universe had simply been waiting for me to get over myself long enough to allow this union. The one-two punch of academic brilliance and frankly indecent amounts of arrogant wit. They both think they're always the smartest person in the room (and they're not half wrong, to be honest).

All through term they have been fluctuating between their usual battle to be top of the class and their new joint goal of dominating the academic world at large. Our teachers who thought their debates were a headache before, were not prepared for them now. Now they enjoy themselves so much they'll go on for bloody ever.

It's a struggle being associated with them, but I manage. Bringing a snack usually helps.

The three of us are laying on the Great Lawn, soaking in the weekend sun while they work on their latest project.

Penny has spread out the massive tartan picnic blanket she knicked from her mum a few years back. She's sitting criss cross with piles of books almost as tall as her stacked all around, threatening to topple over onto Baz.

Every time she gets excited about a find and starts wildly waving papers around, Baz eyes the stacks with disdain from where he's stretched out on the ground. Looking for all the world like an untouchable prince, distant and cold.

I, of course, know that to be bullshit. I can see the smiles he's desperately trying to hide, because he's entirely fond of Penelope and too much of a git to admit it.

I can also see him squinting, trying to angle his book above his head to see more clearly.

I've been sat by his head, doodling all over his forearm (flowers and stars and creatures, all there waiting to do his bidding), so I switch my positioning without really thinking of it, so that my shadow falls over him.

The angle works better for the vines I'm sneaking 'round his elbow, anyway. (They are actually swaying in the breeze. I am so going to accidentally tattoo Baz one of these days.) (The little unicorn I drew on his wrist has now run off somewhere under his shirt.)

I feel his eyes on me, and when I look up I can tell he knows why I moved. I smile at him. I feel warm and soft and quiet.

The moment stretches on.

I've been tracing his features in my mind for years, I wonder what it would feel like to trace them by hand.

I wonder if he would let me.

I think I'm starting to understand that Baz would let me do almost anything.

I reach a hand out and lightly (so, so lightly) trace over his left eyebrow. Down his cheekbone, to the unbearably soft skin under his eye.

(I think he's holding his breath.)

I run my finger over the bump in the bridge of his nose (I did that), I place the pad of my index finger in the dip of his cupid's bow-

And that's when Penny seems to have had enough. She coughs and says, "Right, well, I think I'll be off. I've got some books I think would help back in my room." Her face is so smug and all-knowing, she's practically winking. "See ya."

When I turn back to Baz, he's sat up.

He's looking at his arm, turning it this way and that, taking in the new doodles. "I'd say you need to invest in a sketch pad, Snow, but I know for a fact you already have one and simply choose to deface my limbs day after day."

" _Deface_. Who _are_ you?" I laugh, whacking him on the shoulder with one of the hundreds and thousands of books. "Teenagers don't talk like that, you bloody toff."

He's laughing ( _giggling,_ I dare say), and swatting at me. "Oh, shut up. Don't be jealous, Snow, just because _you_ can't string a whole sentence together."

He's not actually being mean. I love that he's not being mean.

At some point during the hitting and shoving, Baz's hand ended up on my cheek. I lean into it.

He looks a bit rumpled but completely calm, which is quite a feat for him.

He pulls me closer, and then he kisses me.

It's slow and deep and _warm_.

We have time. Because even though the world insists on taking a swing at us at every turn, we're teenagers for Crowley's sake. I'll _make_ time for this.

I'd pause the earth if it meant getting to sit here like this a bit longer.

His hands are in my hair and if he pulls me any closer we'll topple over.

We pull away, but stay close.

With his forehead on mine Baz says, "You drive me mad, Simon Snow." A kiss. "You barge into my life, turn everything upside down, leave your stinky bloody socks on my side of the room, eat my snacks and give me tattoos with questionable permanence."

Another kiss. I can't remember feeling this comfortable in my own skin before.

"Simon." _I'm mad about him, too._ "You are the sun. And it's been a pleasure being burnt by you."

I snort. "You are so _fucking_ dramatic."

I tackle him onto the blanket and he goes down laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> The world has been a bit too much for me lately and I was in need of some softness.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this fluffy little thing. <3


End file.
